Noodles: A lovelie story.

I learned how to lie when I was seven years old.  There was a boy in my class who I hated. I’m not a name dropper, so I’ll just call him...“Jeremy”.  

“Seven years old!” You say, aghast, “and you already hated someone?  Whatever for?”  

I’d love to give you a great answer, but it was probably for a very inconsequential reason.  Possibly because he’d apparently made it his goal to throw a huge ball straight at my curly side-lined head every time all the kids except me played dodgeball (I remember sitting to the side and trying to convince teachers that no, I really did not feel left out, and no, joining the game would not make me feel better).  

Or maybe it was because he liked to dip goldfish crackers in Koolaid.  

Or maybe I took a random dislike to his haircut.  

Whatever reason, just trust me.  I really hated this kid.  He made my upper epidermal layer do unnatural things, like crawl.   

One day, our idealistic teacher decided that not only was her mission in life to make us kinder, more loving people, instead of the cynical, bitter little toads we were, but also to force us to talk to each other.  

You know the type of situation.

Adults have to do it all the time too, but we call it fancy things like “Strategic Meeting No. 1:  Evaluating Relationships Within Your Company and Establishing Similarities and Connection.”  Anyyyway, she gave us an assignment.  That was, to turn to the kid on our left, and pay them a compliment.  We were supposed to say sweet, sincere, cheesy things...things like 

“your smile is a sunbeam!”  

“Your parents must feel blessed!”  

“You are radiant in blue!”  

“I love your hair beyond any other hair in this universe!”  

“You are an incredibly talented, smart, and witty individual!”  

Have I mentioned that group exercises make me want vomit bile all over surrounding people’s shoes?  Partly because they feel like a watered-down form of Communistic mind-control, and partly because they make me really anxious.  Mostly that I won’t have anything kind and sincere to say to anyone.  Suddenly, all I can think are either horrible things that no human could actually say to another human without being blasted by fire from heaven, such as “Do you think your parents really were happy when their child was born and it was...you?”  and “Sometimes I feel compelled to run into a crowded area with a giant knife and yell THEY’RE COMING FOR ME!  WHO WANTS TO DIE??”  

Or else I simply lose 98% of my vocabulary, develop an eye twitch, and grow an extra inch of lower lip and tongue, which leads to a lot of drooling and uncomfortable seconds of shifty eye contact, while speaking beautiful thoughts like “it’s so great to know you.  I mean, not that I really do.  I mean, we just work together and I actually have known you for a year but I’ve never talked to you.  Sometimes I just notice you.  Like, out the window.  I’m not a stalker or anything, ha ha.   Anyway, great.  Great.  It’s super cold out, right?  Sometimes I think that cold weather is...um...I don’t know.  Yeah.  Anyway, I know your name but I don’t call you by it because I learned it from a third-party who you don’t even know I know!  So...”

But back to the story.  In case you forgot, there I was, seven, angelic and curly-haired on the outside, while inside roiled a stoney, blackened heart full of hatred and evil.  And the kid to my left was...Jeremy.  He was wearing a hideous orange and green striped polo shirt.  You know the kind.  Wide stripes.  White buttons.  His hair was appalling my soul.  His face was distinctly unpleasant.  All I could see in him was a ruthless, dodgeball wielding, tasteless killer of joy.  

But I had to say something.  

I couldn’t risk being singled out by the teacher.  

So I lied.  I lied, the first lie I remember telling in my whole short life.  I told him, “I like your shirt,” cringing at the blackness of the monstrous falsity that was leaving my lips.  

...And that’s it.  There is no happy ending.  I’d like to think that, if faced with a similar situation today, I would handle it better.  Maybe I’d try to squeeze a little truth into the compliment, say something like “that shirt really suits your face”.  After all, surely I’ve finessed the art of lying quite a bit since those old days in Sunday school.  Though I’ve not needed it as much since.